


A Confident Man

by April_Valentine



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Confident!Daryl, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rickyl Writers' Group, Snarky Comments - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 21:49:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5718331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/April_Valentine/pseuds/April_Valentine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick and Daryl are on a run together and Daryl gets bonked on the head. Rick gets him to safety and stuff and thangs ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Confident Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sorran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorran/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Sorran. It's been a pleasure getting to know you through our group. I hope you have a great day and that you enjoy this little fic. 
> 
> Thanks to MaroonCamero and MermaidSheenaz for betaing and cheerleading me through this.

Rick was breathing hard, his heart was pounding. Despite the cold air and the snow covering the ground, sweat was beading on his forehead and trickling down his back, It was nearly dark.

He stood up as straight as he could with the weight that was slung across his back and shoulders so he could look around. Up ahead, just beyond a few trees, he could see a farm house. “Thank God,” he breathed, adjusting his grip on Daryl’s body. His friend was still breathing, but he was also still unconscious. Rick took a deep breath of the cold air, made sure Daryl was secure and trudged forward.

In minutes, he was stumbling up the two wooden steps onto the porch. It didn’t look like anyone had been home in years. The house hadn’t been painted in decades, if ever. The floorboards were rotted and the screen door was hanging open. 

Rick knew better than to just walk in, no matter how abandoned a place appeared, so he leaned down and allowed Daryl to slide off his back and onto the porch. He spared a moment to check on him. His eyes were still closed but the head wound wasn’t bleeding as profusely as it had been. His hair was matted, stiff with it. His face was pale, arms and legs limp. The sight of him, like this, made Rick’s throat constrict. It had been so close.

They’d been on a run, just the two of them, and while going through a hardware store, a dozen or so walkers had emerged from the automotive department. There had been so many of them and fighting in close quarters was never easy. Two walkers got Daryl pinned against a wall and in the struggle, a set of shelves fell onto him. After finishing off the walker approaching him, Rick turned to help his friend.

 

Rick could see blood on Daryl’s head, dripping into his eyes and face and at first his heart just stopped. But there was no time to waste and he used his knife to dispatch the two walkers struggling under the shelves and buckets of paint to get to the unconscious man.

He got the walkers and piles of stuff out of his way, then bent over Daryl, checking quickly to make sure he wasn’t injured any other way. They couldn’t stay where they were while Rick did first aid. He could hear other walkers shambling through the store, on their way toward them.

He bent and dragged Daryl’s unconscious form over his shoulder in a graceless fireman’s carry, grabbing his bow and knife from where they’d fallen. He kept his own gun out and ready, and abandoning the supplies they had been gathering, he headed for the nearest door.

Emerging into the parking lot, he could see that the area was filling up with a small herd. They were between him and the car they’d driven here in, so Rick had no choice but to turn around and head out of the lot, looking for any place they could seek shelter.

Fortunately, the walkers didn’t try to follow them. Maybe it was the cold, but once they were out of sight, they didn’t seem interested in going after them. Once he got a safe distance away, he knelt, allowing Daryl to slide to the ground so he could get more organized. He put Daryl’s knife in his own belt and took the crossbow onto his shoulder. Sliding his python into its holster, he again checked Daryl for injuries. His scalp was bleeding, so he used Daryl’s shop rag to try to stem the flow. There didn’t seem to be blood coming from anywhere else.

He seemed to be breathing okay at least. But it was so unusual to see Daryl limp on the ground, eyes closed, face expressionless, that Rick couldn’t stop the fear that was making his hands tremble. He couldn’t lose Daryl. He just couldn’t.

After a few moments, the blood from his head wound seemed to be clotting, matting in his hair. That was a relief at least.

“Daryl?” Rick touched his cheek, stroking gently, then patting in an attempt to wake him up. “Daryl!” He shook the other man’s shoulder a bit, wanting nothing more in that moment to see Daryl’s eyes open and regard him with annoyance for disturbing him. To hear him offer some snarky comment that would make Rick feel silly for worrying so much. But Daryl didn’t respond, didn’t open his eyes.

“You’ll be okay,” he said, reassuring himself more than the other man. He swallowed down his fear, ignoring the way his voice shook when he spoke.

Taking a deep breath, he picked Daryl up again, lifting him over his shoulder with his legs hanging down Rick’s back. He was determined to get him to safety, get them both somewhere safe, where Daryl would wake up and be fine.

All Rick had to do was keep going until he found someplace where he could see to Daryl’s wounds. When he found the farmhouse, he headed for it. If it was clear, or could be cleared, they might be all right.

He hesitated a moment, deciding on what approach he should take. If there were walkers inside, dragging Daryl in in his current condition wouldn’t be wise. But it also wasn’t a good idea to leave him out here on the porch. 

Rick looked around. The area was quiet, the sun sinking in the west, trees and snow wrapping the place in such silence it was almost as if the world was the way it once was. The distance between the trees and the porch was pretty big. Rick figured Daryl would be safe enough outside while he checked the first floor at least. If he hurried.

He spared one more glance down at his friend, then unholstered his gun and pulled the door open. 

It took less than five minutes to make sure the first floor of the old house was empty of walkers. Rick was able to find a lantern that still had some oil in it and he used his matches to light it. That gave him some illumination inside. Checking the porch, he could see that Daryl was still where he’d left him, alone with no walkers shambling toward them. Rick next moved to the staircase and pounded on the wall, knowing that any walkers loitering upstairs would notice the sound and make themselves known. He counted himself lucky when none responded to the noise.

It took him several minutes to drag Daryl and their weapons inside and heave his still unconscious body onto the sagging couch in the living room. He shut the door and shoved a heavy chair and bookcase up against it to keep the dead outside where they belonged. Then he picked up the lamp and headed upstairs to make sure they actually were alone.

To his relief, they were. Once the house was checked, Rick set about searching for items that could be useful. There didn’t seem to be a bathroom so he concluded that the house had no indoor plumbing. He found a closet with lots of towels and sheets and the bedroom at the top of the stairs had a big old washbasin and pitcher in it. He carried the things down stairs to where Daryl was still where he’d left him on the couch. There was a small table at one end of the couch, and Rick put the towels down on it, placing the washbasin and pitcher on the floor.

The kitchen had an old fashioned pump and he drew a bucket of water. There was a wood stove and Rick smiled when he found a decent sized pile of wood. It didn’t take him long to get a fire started and he put the big bucket of water he’d pumped on the stove so it could heat up.

Then he returned to the living room. He was concerned about Daryl. He must be hurt badly if he was still out. Rick bent over him, placing a hand on his chest and relaxed slightly when he could tell he was still breathing easily. Losing any of the others in their group was something he was prepared to do -- except for Carl and Judith. And except for Daryl. 

For some time now, he had felt more than simple friendship for the other man. He’d kept those feelings to himself though, because he could see that Daryl wasn’t comfortable talking about feelings or showing them. The man who had seemed to be nothing more than a wild animal with a chip on his shoulder had come a long way since they had met at the quarry, but Rick didn’t want to jeopardize what they had by putting any pressure or expectations on him.

Now, he set about making sure he wasn’t injured more badly than Rick had first thought. He started to loosen the laces of Daryl’s heavy boots, pulling them off and dropping them to the floor. Next, he took a deep breath to steady himself and reached for his belt. 

Yes, he had feelings for the man that were more than brotherly, but he hadn’t really let himself go so far as to fantasize about him. So while he had nothing to feel guilty about as he began undressing him, he still felt he was taking a liberty that Daryl wouldn’t appreciate.

The belt came open and Rick proceeded to unzip the heavy cargo pants Daryl was wearing. Suddenly, both of his wrists were grabbed by powerful hands.

“Wha…?” Daryl’s voice was slurred, and a quick look told Rick that his eyes weren’t even fully open. Even so, his hands were strong as ever, clamped around Rick’s wrists as they were.

“Shhh,” he reassured the other man. “It’s just me, Daryl. It’s Rick.”

“Oh.” With that, Daryl released Rick’s wrists and let his hands fall open beside him.

Rick had actually expected more of a protest. He resisted the urge to rub at his wrists where Daryl had gripped them so tightly. Instead, he put a hand to the man’s cheek.

“It’s okay. You took a pretty hard blow to the head,” he told him, trying to keep his voice soothing.

“I did?” Daryl looked more confused than anything. “That why you’re takin’ m’pants off?”

“Checkin’ you for injuries,” Rick said, his voice coming out more gruff than he intended.

“Ain’t bit,” Daryl protested as Rick started pulling his cargoes down. 

Daryl tried to raise his head from the cushion to look down. “Whoa…” he gasped. “I feel weird.”

“Cause a shelf with a shit ton of paint cans fell on your head,” Rick informed him. “You’ve been unconscious for over half an hour.”

“Really?” He didn’t look convinced. Daryl tried looking around, surprised to find that he was inside a house and on a couch. “Shit… dizzy,” he muttered.

“Just lay back and let me do this then,” Rick urged him. He’d managed to get Daryl’s pants off, only to discover that beneath them was what looked like a pair of leggings. They were skin tight and patterned, swirls of red and blue going up and down his legs.

“Where did you find these?” Rick asked, suppressing a chuckle. 

“Dunno. They keep the cold out though.” Daryl put a hand up to his head, frowning when he brought it back down again and discovered his fingers were bloody. “What the hell?”

“Told you,” Rick said. “You were really bleeding a lot there for awhile. It got all down the front of my jacket too.”

“Huh?” Daryl wiped the blood off his fingers onto the side of the couch.

“Had to carry you,” Rick answered. “I got us out of that store and the parking lot was getting overrun so I had to move fast.”

“Oh.” Daryl rubbed at his temple absently. “Thanks, then.”

“You’re welcome,” Rick huffed. Seeing no wounds, he decided to leave the leggings on Daryl and instead reached for the buttons on his shirt.

Daryl’s hands came up to grasp Rick’s wrists again, but this time not as tightly. He kept the hold as Rick continued unbuttoning his shirt. 

“I mean… really,” he said, his voice sounding dreamy. Rick looked up at him. Daryl seemed a little spaced out. “Really. Thanks.” 

“It’s okay,” Rick answered, smothering a laugh. Apparently, Daryl got sincere and appreciative when he was concussed.

He tried to check Daryl’s pupils but he couldn’t be sure they weren’t just dilated from the lack of illumination or from his head injury.

“You saved m’life,” Daryl went on. He patted Rick’s hand as it hovered over his shirt buttons.

“You’ve saved mine plenty.” Rick released the last button and pushed the sides of Daryl’s shirt apart, running his fingers lightly over his chest and belly to make sure he hadn’t broken a rib or anything.

“Rick…” Daryl huffed out, “you ticklin’ me now?”

Rick shook his head. “No. Are you ticklish?” His fingers skimmed down over Daryl’s abs, just lightly. He didn’t know why he did that. Ordinarily, Daryl would never let anyone touch him like that. Maybe that was why – the chance to touch Daryl’s bare belly that he never even let anyone see much less fondle.

Daryl smirked and made a gruff sound sort of like a chuckle. “Nah, never been ticklish.” He looked up at Rick, his eyes curious. “You coppin’ a feel, Sheriff?”

Rick blushed. “No!” he denied, quickly taking his hands off Daryl. “I was… just worried.” He cleared his throat. “There were a lot of paint cans. You could have broken a rib or something.”

Daryl ran his own hand down his chest and over his stomach. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, wincing a bit.

Rick bent closer. Low on Daryl’s right side, just below his ribs, he could see a darkening bruise. He lightly slid his fingers over the area. “Does that hurt?” he asked, keeping his voice as soft as his touch.

Daryl grimaced. “Little bit.” 

“Doesn’t seem like anything’s broken,” Rick said. He lifted his hand to Daryl’s head. “I think the bleeding has stopped.” 

Daryl put his own hand up to his head too, chilled fingers landing on Rick’s. “Bleedin’?”

“Yeah. A lot.” Rick was surprised Daryl didn’t seem to remember they had just talked about this. 

Daryl felt around there, his fingers encountering the crusted blood that had dried in his hair. He brought his hand down, holding it up to his eyes, wrinkling his nose at the sight of the blood. “Ewww.”

“You, bothered by the sight of a little blood on your hands? Now I know you’ve sustained a serious concussion.” Rick handed Daryl one of the towels he’d brought over so he could wipe the blood off his hand. 

“Don’ mind when it’s not my blood,” Daryl explained. 

“Oh. Right. Gross, smelly walker blood is much better.” 

Daryl balled up the towel and tossed it toward Rick’s face. He missed. 

“You sure you’re seeing all right?” Rick asked, trying to keep the concern out of his voice. “How many fingers am I holding up?” He raised his hand, holding up his first two fingers.

Daryl peered up at him, his brow furrowing in concentration. He reached out, grabbing Rick’s hand as if to still the image before him. “Two,” he pronounced. 

“Okay. That’s right.” Rick straightened. “I’m going to go get some water. Be right back.” 

He hurried to the kitchen where the bucket of water was now steaming. He poured some of it into a pan and carried it into the living room and sat it next to the couch. He looked around and noticed a wooden chair on the other side of the room. Pulling it close to the couch, he sat down and dipped a rag into the water, wetting it so he could attempt to clean the cut on Daryl’s head.

The blood had dried on Daryl’s forehead and Rick first set about washing it off there. He patted as carefully as he could, but Daryl winced anyway. He didn’t groan aloud but his lips tightened.

“Sorry.” Rick apologized as he worked. He knew Daryl’s head had to be sore after the cans had fallen on him. From what he could tell, there were at least two cuts on his head. They weren’t that deep but head wounds always bled a lot. He rinsed his rag off in the warm water, continuing to wipe at the dried blood over Daryl’s left eye.

“How’s that?” he asked, folding the used rag over the edge of the basin. “Better?”

Daryl moved his head back and forth experimentally, then shrugged. “Yeah. It aches though. And I still feel dizzy. Tried ta get up while you were gone.”

“Daryl, you were _unconscious_. You don’t need to try to get up just yet. We’re safe here. I’ve built a fire and I think there’s some canned food out in the kitchen. We don’t need to be ready to go anywhere for hours.” He nodded toward the window. “It’s already nearly dark out.”

“Not used to layin’ around,” Daryl said, looking annoyed, though Rick knew the emotion was directed inward.

“I know. Last time you were even slightly incapacitated was back when Andrea shot you, on the farm. You had a head wound then too, remember?”

“Yeah, you were gonna shoot me,” Daryl snarked at him.

“But I didn’t.” Rick grinned at the memory. “Andrea yelled ‘walker’ so me and Shane and T and Glenn all ran out to see and from the way you looked, we weren’t sure at first.”

“I was lookin’ right at you. Talkin’ and everything.”

“I know, but before that. You were covered in blood and dirt, staggering… for one second, I was –“ Rick hesistated, then decided there was no reason not to say how he’d felt at that moment. “I was scared. Didn’t know what I’d do if you’d been bit and turned.”

Daryl looked away, uncomfortable with Rick’s words. “Wasn’t like we knew each other all that well.”

“I know. We were just starting to trust each other. But I knew I could rely on you, even then. And when we realized what all you’d been through that day… I… I just had to admire you.”

Daryl scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

Rick leaned closer, meeting his eyes. “I’m serious, Daryl. You took a bad fall down a ravine, you had one of your own bolts in your side, you were attacked by walkers, yet you got yourself and Sophia’s doll back to us to let us know that you’d found it. And you didn’t give up or whine or complain or expect anything of us, even after Andrea used you for target practice. You’re the toughest guy I’ve ever met.”

“Merle called me a pussy,” Daryl said, his eyes going distant.

“What? When?”

“That day.” Daryl reached up to rub at his forehead, then looked at Rick. “Never told you all the gory details, did I?”

“No. What happened?”

“Banged my head pretty hard in the fall. Woke up ‘n Merle was right there with me. Mockin’ me like he always did. Sayin’ I didn’t have the balls to make it out.”

“So he was, like… motivating you?” Rick chuckled a little. “Not sure I can picture Merle that way.”

“He wasn’t bein’ nice.” Daryl seemed to agree. “Talked about you.”

“About me?” The idea that the Merle of Daryl’s subconscious would mention him seemed pretty odd.

“I said I was lookin’ for Sophia, that you’d asked me to…” Daryl’s eyes suddenly focused more intently on Rick. “Called me your bitch.”

Rick wasn’t sure how to respond to that information. 

“Told him I wasn’t nobody’s bitch,” Daryl continued, his words slurring a little. “Even in my head, he was always nasty about…” The words trailed off.

“About what?”

“Shit like that. Like if I was friends with some guy, he’d make somethin’ of it.”

“Oh.” The idea that Merle would be homophobic wasn’t a shock but that he would surmise that his younger brother would have other feelings for a male friend – yeah, that wasn’t surprising either, Rick decided. 

“Didn’t want me to get too tight with any guys,” Daryl went on, as though musing. “Scared to death I was gay.” He shifted on the couch, his eyes sliding shut. “Didn’t know he was right…” With a soft exhalation of breath, Daryl seemed to drop into sleep.

Rick sat there for a second, stunned at the words. Daryl had never been one for long conversations and he never talked much about himself, so any revelation would have been surprising but this – Daryl was _gay_? 

There was no time to contemplate the admission though. Daryl shouldn’t be sleeping if he had a concussion and if he had lost consciousness, that was even worse. Rick slid off the chair and knelt beside him, one hand on his shoulder, the other cupping his face.

“Daryl. Daryl? Wake up!”

With a soft gasp, Daryl’s eyes fluttered open. “’S goin’ on?”

Rick withheld his sigh of relief. “It’s okay. Just wanted to make sure you didn’t pass out on me.”

“M’fine,” Daryl asserted. “Quit lookin’ all worried.”

“Stay awake then,” Rick shot back. “If you’ve got a concussion, you’re not supposed to sleep.”

“You worried ‘bout me, Rick?” His tone was serious now, but he sounded hopeful too, almost as if he needed the answer to be yes.

Why not? Rick thought. When would there be another time when Daryl was this open? 

“I am,” he said, his voice earnest and sincere. “Woulda been awful if Andrea’d killed you back then, but now -- now I don’t think I could deal with it if something happened to you.”

“That so?” Daryl reached out, his hand clasping Rick’s shoulder. “M’too tough to bail on ya.”

“Okay. See that you don’t.” Rick put his own hand up to cover Daryl’s, holding eye contact with him for a long moment. 

Daryl blinked finally, then withdrew his hand and put it up to his own head again. “Think m’still bleedin’” 

Rick checked, fingers parting the blood soaked hair. “Might be,” he agreed. He grabbed one of the towels, folded it and held it up against the wound on Daryl’s head, pressing down gently. “I’ll just keep this here for awhile ‘til it stops.”

“Did you say there some canned food here?” Daryl asked after a moment.

“Yeah. When I cleared the kitchen. You hungry?”

Daryl grunted which Rick took for a yes. 

“I think I saw some cans of chili,” Rick told him. “Once the bleeding’s stopped, I’ll go heat us up some. There’s a wood stove. And whoever lived here left us a nice pile of kindling so I built a fire.”

“Mmmn,” was all Daryl said in response.

They sat there in silence for a while. Rick checked his watch and seeing that it had been almost fifteen minutes, he checked the towel he’d been holding against Daryl’s head. “Looks like it stopped,” he announced, pleased. “How’s your head feel?”

“Not that bad,” Daryl responded. He made as if to push up from the couch but Rick stopped him. 

“Just rest, okay?” Rick knew it went against everything Daryl was to be coddled or taken care of. And if he knew the man at all, ‘not that bad’ probably actually meant ‘excruciating’. “I got this.”

He moved to the kitchen where he rummaged until he located a can opener, then took two cans of Hormel chili from the dusty cupboard and, once he got the tops off, emptied both into a pan and set it on the stove. While their food was heating, he made his way back upstairs and carried a few pillows from the beds downstairs. 

In a few minutes, their chili was bubbling and it smelled pretty good. Rick got out two bowls and spoons, rinsed them off, and dished up their meal. He carried the bowls back into the living room.

Daryl was resting quietly, only the tight lines around his eyes indicating he was in some pain. Rick got some water bottles out of his pack and called his friend’s name softly.

Daryl started, looking around in some confusion. 

“Easy,” he murmured, hand on Daryl’s shoulder. “We’re in a cabin, remember?”

Daryl groaned. “Oh. Yeah.”

Rick showed him the pillows. “Can you sit up a bit more so it’s easier to eat and drink?”

“Sure,” Daryl nodded, struggling to shift his position. Rick hesitated, aware of Daryl’s aversion to sudden touches, but he wasn’t rebuffed when he grasped Daryl’s shoulders, helping him to sit half way up and propping the pillows behind his head. Once he was resettled, he opened one of the water bottles and handed it to him.

“You should drink,” Rick said, sitting down on his chair.

Daryl nodded and complied, swallowing half the bottle’s contents before he handed it back to Rick. Taking it, Rick screwed the lid back on and put it down on the floor. Then he handed Daryl his bowl of chili while he grabbed his own off the end table.

Daryl tasted the chili and moaned. “Oh, this is good, Rick.”

“Really?” Rick dug into his own serving. It tasted okay but certainly not spectacular. “It’s just canned chili. Guess it’s not expired or anything.”

“Mmm,” Daryl savored another spoonful. “Maybe it’s cause you heated it up. But this is… so good.” He licked his spoon, then dipped it in for more. “Thanks, Rick.”

Rick kept his smile to himself. He didn’t think he’d ever heard Daryl enjoy a meal like this. “You’re welcome. I worked all day.”

Daryl snorted, his approximation of a laugh at Rick’s joke. He was still eating. “Musta been hungry. Or somethin’.”

“I’m glad it tastes good to you,” Rick said then, really meaning it. He had been worried about Daryl and seeing that his appetite was good was a relief. 

Daryl finished his bowl, scraping his spoon to glean as much as he could. He sighed, leaning back against his pillows when he was finished. Rick took the bowl from his hands.

“You want some more?”

“Nah. But it was good.” Daryl’s eyes fluttered closed.

“Yeah, you said that.” Rick took the bowl from Daryl’s limp fingers. “Some more water?”

Daryl looked up at him, a small smile on his lips. “Sure.” He took the bottle and finished it. “Feel better now.”

“That’s good.” Rick took the empty bottle from him, then proceeded to empty his own bowl of chili. It wasn’t bad, he had to admit. And they did often eat canned food without heating it simply because they couldn’t start a fire sometimes. Here though, with taking the time to actually cook the food, he supposed that was why it tasted so much better. Regardless, he was glad Daryl had enjoyed it. If he could eat and drink he could keep his strength up. He’d been worried that hitting his head would make him feel sick.

After they finished, Rick put their bowls on the end table, then leaned back in his chair. He rubbed his eyes, suddenly exhausted.

“You must be tired,” Daryl said, his voice soft. “How far’d you carry me?”

“Maybe half a mile.” He lifted and lowered his shoulders, trying to stretch out the kinks. “You’re heavy. And so is that bow of yours.”

Daryl smirked. “Bow’s only fifty pounds,” he said as if claiming Rick was a wimp. 

“Right. _Only_ fifty pounds.” Rick rolled his eyes. He thought about how Daryl lugged that heavy bow around with him every day, thinking about the definition in the man’s arms from it. His whole body was firm and solid – Rick told himself to stop thinking that way.

Still, considering the revelation Daryl had let slip might at least mean he wouldn’t mind the idea that another man liked looking at his biceps. Rick looked at him, stretched out on the old couch, wearing nothing but his unbuttoned shirt and the blue and red patterned long underwear – he was beautiful, all coiled strength and feline grace. So well known to Rick, yet still such an enigma. Did Daryl even realize he’d said he was gay? It wasn’t like Rick could just ask him. _”By the way, when you were talking about Merle, did you mean to say he didn’t know you were gay?”_ No, that wouldn’t do at all.

Daryl moved restlessly, his left hand probing at his head wound. His fingers combed through his hair but got stuck since there was so much matted blood.

“What are you doing there?” Rick asked, wanting to reach out and pull Daryl’s hand down.

“Wanted to get the hair out of my eyes,” Daryl explained, sounding frustrated. “But it’s all sticky and shit.”

“It’s the dried blood,” Rick told him. “Leave it alone, or you’ll start it bleeding again.”

“Feels gross.”

If it had been anyone else, Rick would have accused them of pouting. But he didn’t think that was something Daryl Dixon was capable of. Still, if there was some way of making him feel better, Rick would be glad to do it. His eyes fell on the washbasin and pitcher he’d brought down stairs.

“You know, maybe if I washed the blood out of your hair, it would feel better”

“What?” Daryl just looked at him, his expression suggesting Rick had just offered to shave his head instead of wash it.

“Yeah,” Rick continued. “I could clean the blood out, make sure the cuts don’t get infected and I’ll bet it would help your headache too.”

“You don’t have to.” Daryl shifted, his eyes darting away from Rick’s steady gaze.

“Daryl – I just offered to do it. I don’t mind. You can’t even stand up straight right now, so it’s not like you can do it yourself.”

Daryl shrugged. “If I can’t stand up how --?”

“I’ve got the perfect solution.” 

In moments, Rick had taken their dirty dishes out to the kitchen, brought the bucket of hot water in to the living room and emptied some of it into the porcelain pitcher. He had moved the table over in front of the couch, near the end so all Daryl had to do was lean over. He had put towels over the pillows and Daryl’s shoulders. He had even found some nice soap he could use to wash his hair.

He helped Daryl to sit up a little more. He looked a bit uncertain, but Rick kept up a soothing monologue that he had it all covered and, most likely due to his injury, Daryl was more compliant than usual anyway. Rick put the washbasin on the table and Daryl leaned forward so Rick could pour the warm water over his head. 

“How’s that?” he asked. “Not too hot?” 

“Nah,” Daryl said, his voice muffled a little. “Feels okay.”

Rick poured some more, getting the long, lank hair thoroughly wet. Then he used his hands to create some suds with the soap, glad it was the type that foamed up pretty easily. Once he had enough suds, he put his hands in Daryl’s wet hair and started massaging gently. 

“Mmmm,” Daryl actually sighed at the touch. Rick felt a surge of warmth inside his chest at the sound. 

He moved his fingers gingerly, with as much tenderness as he could, easing through the blood-matted strands, trying not to pull or tug too hard. He kept pouring on more water, watching the blood flow out and into the basin. He rubbed softly over Daryl’s left temple, a few inches below the deeper cut, and Daryl leaned in that direction. Rick could see that the tension in Daryl’s shoulders was easing as he kept on working his fingers through his hair.

“You comfortable enough?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” Daryl answered, his voice soft and a little rough. “Nobody never washed my hair before.”

“Then I better do a good job,” Rick said. His chest constricted, the warmth in it growing. He thought about how barbers washed customers’ hair but figured maybe Daryl hadn’t ever gone to one before. He didn’t say anything about that though, not wanting to embarrass him. He knew that Daryl had never been exposed to a lot of the things most people considered normal back before the world changed and that hurt him – he wished he could give the other man everything he’d never had. That wasn’t possible here and now though and Daryl was too proud to accept grand gestures or gifts anyway. But if he could make the man’s life a little easier, that would be something. He wanted to give him _something_. At least let him know how much he meant to him.

He lifted the pitcher again, letting the warm water cascade through the long, dark strands, noting that it mostly ran clear when it ended up in the basin now. He’d managed to get most of the blood out. Rick was almost disappointed to be nearly done with his task.

He took another moment, gently massaging over Daryl’s scalp, making sure to avoid the abrasions, pleased to note that the cuts weren’t too deep. Cleaning them would help them to heal too. 

Touching Daryl this way felt so good and he knew it felt good to his friend too. He was still sighing softly as the water poured over his head, making small “mmm” sounds as Rick rubbed gently at his scalp and finger-combed through his hair. Daryl was so self sufficient usually; being able to give him this kind of comfort made Rick feel that warmth all over, not just in his chest, his heart, but all through his body and mind. 

“There,” he said at last, squeezing a handful of Daryl’s long locks to get the water out. He reached for another towel and draped it over his bent head, avoiding the pink tinged water in the basin. “Hold that and I’ll just move this out of the way.”

He dragged the table over to the side, then quickly returned to his chair, pulling it close to the couch again. Daryl was still leaning with his head bent down, his hands clenched in the towel over his wet hair.

Rick put his own hands over Daryl’s, rubbing and squeezing in an effort to dry his hair without hurting his head. Daryl dropped his hands, allowing Rick to do the job, sighing deeply as his friend patted his hair dry. Finally, as Rick lifted the now wet towel, Daryl leaned back, his expression more open and relaxed than Rick had ever seen it. 

He blinked a couple of times, then met Rick’s gaze. “Hmm. A guy could get used to that,” he mumbled. 

“Guess I shoulda been a hairdresser,” Rick joked. The stereotypical image of a gay hairdresser came unbidden into his mind, which he quickly tried to squelch.

“Nah, you were too good a sheriff,” Daryl told him. “I’ll bet you were great at it. You were all diplomatic and shit when we first met.”

“I – I’ve kinda lost that ability, I guess,” Rick said, a bit embarrassed. “Diplomacy isn’t much good these days.”

“You fall back on it when you need to,” Daryl told him. He met Rick’s eyes, his gaze clear and penetrating. “Talked me into washin’ my hair, didn’t ya?”

Rick smiled, thinking that under normal circumstances offering to wash Daryl’s hair would be met with a string of cuss words and maybe a bolt in the ass for good measure. “Desperate times call for desperate measures,” he said with a shrug.

“I ain’t desperate,” Daryl said, a mock scowl telling Rick he was joking. 

They sat looking into each other’s eyes for a long moment. Rick didn’t want to be the first to break the contact but he didn’t know why Daryl was gazing at him that way or why he himself couldn’t look anywhere else. Daryl’s eyes were usually half hidden behind strands of his hair, or squinted into a scowling expression. Now though, they were wide and clear, full of something Rick couldn’t define. They were of a darker blue than he’d realized, full of emotion that the reticent man usually kept hidden. 

“Rick,” Daryl’s voice was a hoarse whisper. His eyes glanced down to where Rick’s hands were resting on the towel laid over his chest. He brought both of his own up to cover Rick’s. 

Rick opened his mouth, but he had no idea what he to say in response.

Daryl spoke again. “Rick.” Just his name, but stronger this time, more insistent.

“Yeah?” Rick’s voice was even more rough than Daryl’s.

“Did I… did I say something… when I was talkin’ about Merle?”

Rick could pretend he didn’t know what Daryl was talking about. Or he could be honest.

“Yeah. I mean, kinda. I think.” He thought he must sound like a complete idiot.

Daryl blinked a couple of times, then bit his lower lip. “He didn’t know,” he began, then glanced away, his cheeks darkening. “There wasn’t much _to_ know, but...”

“You do like guys?” Rick finished for him.

“Had to sneak around, do stuff when Merle wasn’t around, but yeah.” Daryl’s gaze returned to Rick’s. “You got a problem with that or anything?”

“No,” Rick told him, more serious than he’d ever been. “Not at all. I was… sort of glad you said it, actually.”

Daryl’s eyes grew wide. “No shit?”

Rick looked down at their hands, hesitating only a moment before he laced his fingers with Daryl’s. 

“Rick?” This time his name was a question on Daryl’s lips, the sound nakedly hopeful.

Rick glanced up, met his eyes, wanting to lose himself in them.

Daryl leaned forward, slipping one hand free of Rick’s to wrap it around the back of his neck so he could bring their lips together. 

They were kissing then, and Rick’s body flushed from warm to hot, his half formed desires blossoming into full want the instant Daryl’s wet lips sealed to his own. Daryl’s mouth was firm, moist, eager and sensuous, his tongue slipping out to cajole Rick’s lips apart, then diving in at his first invitation to taste and consume him. 

Never in all his wildest dreams did Rick have any notion that Daryl would be this good a kisser. 

He kept one hand at the back of Rick’s neck, angling him perfectly, while the other slipped into his curls, tugging and tangling, carding through over and over in a way that aroused Rick as much as the press of his lips and tongue.

The broke apart briefly. Rick dragged in a deep breath, noting that Daryl was breathing raggedly too. 

“You… were just hit on the head,” he began worriedly.

“I know what I’m doin’, Rick.” Daryl punctuated the words with a slow smile, his eyes glittering like embers as he looked Rick over.

“I mean – you were knocked unconscious. Shouldn’t get too strenuous --”

Daryl kissed him into silence. “Not runnin’ a marathon,” he said gruffly when they parted. He looked into Rick’s eyes. “Just… come down here with me, okay?”

Rick could refuse him nothing. He pushed off the chair and climbed onto the couch, Daryl moving backwards to make room for him. His left hand landed on Daryl’s hip, the long underwear smooth and warm under his fingers. Daryl shifted a bit, getting Rick’s hand to slide toward his crotch. Rick wasn’t too surprised to find his cock hard and hot, anxiously growing as he gripped it through the material. 

“Ahhh, Daryl,” he said, all the need and desire he’d been pretending wasn’t there pushing through the barriers he didn’t need to keep closed any more. He fumbled with the garment separating them, locating the opening eventually, wriggling his fingers in to caress the hardness inside. It wasn’t a very good caress though.

“Owww,” Daryl complained suddenly. “These things are tight as shit.” 

Rick leaned back, helping as best he could so Daryl could pull the underwear down his thighs, then both their hands met at Rick’s belt buckle.

Daryl fumbled a bit, so Rick took over, getting his pants undone and shoved down quickly, sighing as Daryl pulled their lower bodies together once they were both bare. 

It felt fantastic to Rick, both their hard cocks rubbing together, Daryl’s seeping wetness onto Rick’s abdomen and the realization that his own was doing the same to Daryl’s. Then Daryl was kissing him again, one hand running down Rick’s side, over his hip and taking hold of his cock, stroking him with certainty. Rick kissed him back, mouth open to let Daryl in deeper, his fingers tracing over Daryl’s bare chest and belly, and then gripping his erection. It was awkward, sort of backwards for Rick, but Daryl knew what to do. He pushed Rick’s hand out of the way and encircled both their cocks, stroking and pulling them into a rhythm that felt like sheer perfection to Rick, as if this man who he knew so well should know this about him too, just how tight he liked to be stroked, how hard, how fast. His hips started shuddering into the pace Daryl set, their mouths working at the same tempo, Rick’s hand finding something to do when he slid it up and located Daryl’s stiff nipple which he circled and teased on the off beats. Daryl started groaning into his mouth, his hips jerking harder, his cock stiffening even more as it rubbed against Rick’s and then Rick felt the hot bursts of Daryl’s orgasm wash over him, making his own body shatter and break too.

He floated, the pieces of himself coming back together like leaves going downstream, like a puzzle that had magnets in its interlocking sections, like Daryl had released the lock that had set them free. He was still himself, still Rick Grimes, but put together in a new way. He was holding someone, his best friend and they had felt good together, good and alive and… Rick wanted to do it again, make it even better, as soon as Daryl felt better and they could try out stuff that he was suddenly imagining.

“Daryl?” he asked, hoping that his friend felt the same way. “Was that okay? You feel all right?”

“Not made a glass, Grimes,” Daryl said, a grin in his voice. He kissed Rick’s lips, his mouth languid now, but no less giving. 

“I know.”

“Feel fine, Rick,” Daryl whispered. “How about you?”

“Fine.” He kissed Daryl again. “Really fine. Like I’d like to do it again when you aren’t concussed.” He paused. “If you want to.”

“Oh yeah,” Daryl said gruffly. “I got a lot I can show ya.”

“You never cease to surprise me.” Rick smiled, hugging Daryl to him. “I should have washed your hair for you a long time ago.”

Daryl growled, kissing Rick’s neck, his jaw and then claiming his lips, proving that even with a head injury, Daryl Dixon was a very capable and confident man.


End file.
